All The Saved Up Wishes
by L0ndonFog1881
Summary: When Sherlock traces a series of mysterious disappearances to a curiosity shop, he never suspected John might be the next victim. Or that the means to save him would require something beyond logic, challenge his indifference to love.


_"A scientific man ought to have no wishes, no affections - a mere heart of stone."_  
><em>- Charles Darwin<em>

"I don't like the looks of this place." John, ever the voice of rationality, needlessly points out once they've taken a good hard look inside the curiosity shop window. It seems to belong in another time and place, not here in the heart of central London, a few blocks south of Baker Street, and he cannot shake the ominous shiver those trinkets displayed in the window send rippling down his spine. _"Please," _he whispers, fingers grazing the sensitive underside of the detective's wrist as he makes to pull Sherlock away. "How about we leave this one for Lestrade, since technically, it isn't even your case. Anyway, I'm starving, and there's a good Chinese take away just around the corner."

Sherlock expels an impatient breath. "Why get caught up on a minor technicality? The proprietor _is _connected to the disappearances, but how? Why are his victims so random, what is he doing with them? He's a clever one, John, but I've been one step behind him and this is my chance to finally outfox the man."

A bell chimes as Sherlock pushes through the door. John's impulsive urge to follow him is stronger than any apprehension may be, but he is unable to entirely shake off his nerves.

They are greeted by a raven haired man with equally dark, penetrating eyes rimmed with kohl; eyes that seem to peer straight through him. A sick smile twists his lips and John feels weak in the knees, steadies himself upon a dusty rack of incense burners to keep from swooning. The dark man passes this same glance on Sherlock, who only returns an expression of disgust. The man nods, some unspoken acknowledgement having obviously having passed between them.

"Do you have it?"

It would be bloody fantastic, John thinks, if for once he could be clued in. That would be asking too much though, to keep your friend reasonably informed on your plans.

"That all depends on whether you are willing to pay the price," the raven haired man remarks with a mirthless laugh that reveals eyeteeth just a touch too long to be natural.

"Money is no object," Sherlock lies.

"Oh, is _that_ what you think it costs?" He shakes his head deprecatingly, like he pities this man for giving such an unacceptable answer.

"What, then? Gold, silver, property… a favour?"

"I did not say it was for sale. No, something so valuable can't be had for anything as vulgar as material wealth. A price – now, that is an entirely different matter. The question is, do you want what I am offering badly enough to pay my price? Speak the truth, Mr. Holmes, because you fool no one but yourself if you choose deception. I can penetrate through your walls, see straight into your heart. Just ask your friend here, if you doubt me."

Sherlock sneers. "Oh, I see; you were tipped off. And here I was, assuming you to be clever when it appears you'd done no more than outmanoeuver me at my own game. Come, John. We're done here… for now." He turns on his heel, guiding his confused friend with a hand to the small of the back, his fingers pressed just tightly enough so that his meaning is silently conveyed. _Our cover is blown. Situation treacherous. Move faster._

"What you seek remains available, if you're not daunted by my price. You are a man who thirsts for exact knowledge and allows no obstacles to hinder his journey for enlightenment. With you, there are no messy entanglements of sentiment to be bothered with, so yes, I believe we can arrange a very special rate in this instance," the proprietor calls out as his hand curls around the doorknob. Sherlock, after a pause, lets it fall. He has, after all, always reveled in treacherous situations. This one is far too tempting to turn down. What little treasure does he offer that compels otherwise sane, well-adjusted, affluent people to sell off children, friends, loved ones to him like they were just another piece of property? More importantly, what was he doing with the kidnapped victims that for all purposes, they might as well have vanished into thin air?

"Come into the back room, and I'll show you." There is something about the way he says it that translates to a gleam in the detective's sharp grey eyes.

"Sherlock, don't. Let the police handle it."

His friend's cautioning goes unheeded, ignored even, because the thrill is building into a climax and all else is blocked out. He lives for moments like these, the culmination of scientific curiosity with a razor's edge of danger, and none of John Watson's pleads for him to turn back, to not follow that sinister man, make a difference to him. _No obstacles to hinder the journey of enlightenment…_

He pulls back the dark coloured curtain leading into the back room without a solitary glance backwards.

* * *

><p>"For a bloody genius, that man is unbelievably daft," John complains to no one in particular. Or maybe it's directed at the crow whose square sterling silver plated cage (strange thing for one to house a bird in, more resembles a miniature prison cell than any birdcage) is perched atop a cobweb encrusted bookcase to the side of the curtain. John is pacing frantically, more agitated than his friend when in the throes of a particularly complicated problem, so he only vaguely notices the odd blood-red tattoo mark between the bird's eyes. Doing nothing is wearing him more ragged than when in pursuit of a criminal, adrenaline pumping full force, their lives at stake. Resolved to take action, he reaches out to pull away the curtain. The crow squawks mightily, the sound so shrill and unsettling it seems, for an instant, to steal the air from his lungs.<p>

"Shut up, you," John whispers shakily, once he gets his breath back.

The bird caws back, though at a much more tolerable volume this time around. _No, __**you**__ shut up you stupid git, and while you're at it, get the hell out of here if you know what's good for you._

Oh God, he's hearing imaginary bird voices now.

"I'm not leaving. My friend is in there and I'll be damned if I let anything happen to him!"

_You already are damned._

Is this what it's like to go batshit mental? Having a conversation with a bird who hurls insults and warnings in the same sentence, while trying to think of a good comeback to spite it. John also wonders if he should add having hallucinations to that list, because there can _not, _under any reasonably sane circumstances, possibly be a _wolf_ prowling about the premises. No, he comes to the reasonable conclusion that the air in here must be making him mad as a hatter, and that he is simply going to sidestep around this coal-black, snarling figment of his imagination, haul his friend out of here by his bony arse, and never, god willing, look back. Yes, that is just what he's going to do.

The old adage 'easier said than done' sort of applies in this case.

Problem is, John Watson doesn't get so much as two steps forward before it's painfully clear this apparition is as solidly flesh and blood as he is. Little things that warn his senses. The scraping of claws on the unfinished wood floor, the stench of rotting breath - that reminds him very much of a decomposing corpse - the way hackles rise and ears flatten against it's head, how the chain attached to a sterling silver collar rattles as it stalks nearer. There is that same bizarre red symbol branded into the fur atop it's head, like a cross only with a loop at the uppermost point.

John is backing up, bracing the merchandise shelves for leverage, because this creature has given him such a turn that he's on the verge of pissing in his trousers. Not even in Afghanistan did the doctor have a brush with fear of this calibre. Not only is it roughly the size of a small bear, the chain grows spare links whenever it reaches the end of the lead. A squawking, high pitched voice resounds in his ears just as he comes to this realization.

_It won't reach outside the shoppe's boundaries… GO! _

Like a child whose seen the bogeyman peeking out from the closet and can't conjure up his voice to cry out for his mother, John finds his voice is equally useless. His mouth has gone hoarse and dry, his gun was left back in his desk drawer at home since this was meant to be a nothing more daring than a companionable outing in pleasant weather. All he can do as the wolf lunges for him is to shield his vulnerable face and throat with his arms.

* * *

><p>Sherlock emerges from the curtained room in precisely nine minutes and fourteen seconds. He holds a jewel encrusted gold decanter; diamonds, rubies, emeralds and onyx stones meticulously crafted into the pictograph language of the ancient Egyptians. It's the genuine article, a good thirty five hundred years old if it's a day, yet still preserved in flawless condition. The intrinsic value is inestimable, though it's a safe wager to say it belongs in a museum or a palace - would undoubtedly be worth more than said palace and every priceless possession within, combined.<p>

This is not, however, what weighs most heavily on Sherlock's ignited mind. He is a man on intimate terms with logic, reason, science. Therefore, he's thoroughly rejected the proprietor's outrageous claims of superstition and wish granting djinni. Everything out of his lying mouth was not only a heap of rubbish, but a deliberate distraction meant to place the detective on a false trail. All this was evident to Sherlock with the exception of motivation. Why entrust him with this priceless artifact when it was obvious his 'unofficial' investigation pointed squarely at this establishment and everyone in it's employ?

"When - or rather, how - am I to make restitution for this?"

The proprietor stepped out of the back room, seemingly oblivious. That is, he made a great effort not to acknowledge his patron and instead made a show of removing a key dangling from a necklace he wore constantly, judging by the slight chafing at the base of his neck. He used it to open a lock on a birdcage whose sole occupant was a crow with two clipped wings and a red ankh tattooed to it's forehead. The bird obediently perched on his arm while the man rubbed a finger under it's beak.

"No need to worry about such trivial things, Mr. Holmes. So few have the good fortune of being eligible for the wish-granting djinni, because they will be unable to make the payment requirements. The price, as I've confided to you, _is_ rather a hefty one. Nothing is free, isn't that right," the proprietor queried the bird, almost mockingly, before setting it back in the cage and promptly locked it in. "Another," he said, turning to the detective, face an unreadable mask "has already paid for you."

"Oh, I follow you now. This is a payoff in return for my leaving this case alone. How… original. A shame that money doesn't hold much appeal to me, as my ever patient flat-mate will eagerly attest to. Speaking of which, come along, John, we're leaving."

Sherlock sets down the artifact on a table of ancient leather volumes behind him, begins to wind his way through the maze of cluttered shelves. The displaced dust patterns on two parallel racks are suggestive of someone having held on to them, walking backwards if the elongated finger marks were anything to go by. The marks were definitely not there before. John has not yet answered him.

A twinge faintly resembling physical pain hits him just below the left shoulder, somewhere in the general cardiac region. Makes it hard to breathe.

"John, I said it's time to go," a notch louder this time.

He is shuffling backwards himself, taking in a panoramic view of the shoppe, scanning it with eagle eyes for any sign of his friend. He turns on his heel around another set of shelves leading into a narrow section, climbing over piles of books and weaving around grotesque stone statues of ancient deities. Further down the close pathway there is evidence of dust and merchandise having been disturbed.

"John!" he calls out, a hitch in his voice.

"Here. I'm here." The voice is weak and pale, like an intimation of what John Watson sounds like. For a second, he doesn't believe it's even John speaking, but then he sees the man himself, huddled in an unlit corner. He's looking up at Sherlock, confusion scrawled all over his face surely as if it was drawn on with a marker.

"I think… I've been bitten," he notes casually as one does when asking to pass the sugar. And then proceeds to slump over and passes out just as the detective falls down on his knees to catch him.


End file.
